days of baker!nanami and his apprentice. you are more trouble than you are help, but it’s okay, he adores you anyway.
contents. baker!nanami x apprentice!reader • fluff fluff fluff • reader is a little airheaded • nanami is flustered and in love.
the bakery sat on the corner of the street, its windows fogged with warmth every morning before the sun even thought about rising. nanami kento liked it that way— quiet, predictable, the scent of proofing dough and buttercream settling into his bones like a second heartbeat.
he had built this place with his own hands, piece by piece and brick by brick. the marble counter he’d sourced from a closing shop three towns over. the espresso machine he’d learned to repair himself after the third time it broke. the display case that still had a tiny chip in the corner from when he’d dropped a sheet pan during his first week open, exhausted and alone and wondering if he’d made a terrible mistake.
he hadn’t, as it turned out. the bakery had grown roots. regulars came in every morning for their pain au chocolat and their oat milk lattes. the old woman from apartment 2B sent him thank-you cards for her birthday cakes. children pressed their noses to the glass and pointed at the croissant towers in the window.
it was good. it was fine. it was enough.
and then you walked in, looking for a job.
the first time you appeared, it was raining. it came down hard and sideways, soaking through everything, turning the streets into rivers. nanami was alone, wiping down the espresso machine, already thinking about closing early and going home to read and pretend he had a social life.
the bell above the door chimed.
you stood there, dripping onto his freshly mopped floor, hair plastered to your face, holding a crumpled piece of paper that was rapidly disintegrating in your wet hands.
“hi,” you said. “i’m supposed to be here for a job interview? but my bus got lost and then my phone died and i think i accidentally got on the wrong bus entirely and ended up in a different neighborhood but then i saw your sign and i thought—” you took a breath that was more of a gasp. “i thought maybe you were still hiring? even if i’m late? and also wet?”
nanami looked at you. at the puddle forming beneath your shoes. at the desperate, hopeful, slightly unhinged expression on your face.
“the interview was at eight,” he said. “it’s nine-fifteen.”
“i know.” you wilted slightly. you looked like a scolded kid. “i’m sorry. i’ll go.”
you turned to leave, but he managed to catch your pouty expression and something in his chest tugged, a small, quiet pull, like a thread catching on a loose button.
“wait,” he said with an exasperated sigh.
you stopped.
“can you bake?”
you turned back around, rain dripping from your chin. “i don’t know. i’ve never tried.”
“well.” nanami nodded, already reaching for an extra apron. “come on. i’ll teach you.”
you were, objectively, terrible.
nanami learned this over the following weeks. you burned things. you under-proofed things. you once put a tray of macarons in the oven and forgot to turn the oven on, then stood there for twenty minutes wondering why nothing was happening.
“they need heat, sweetheart.”
“oh.” you looked at the cold oven. looked at the sad, room-temperature macarons and turned on the oven before looking back at him. “like… this?”
“like that, yes.”
“right. i knew that.”
you absolutely had not known that and that had been eight months ago! eight months of you showing up at five-fifty every morning without fail, even though you were clearly not a morning person and spent the first hour looking like a disgruntled baby bird. eight months of you learning, slowly and painfully, that baking was not about “vibes” (your word) but about ratios and temperatures and the unforgiving cruelty of a meringue that refused to peak.
nanami watched you fumble through your first week, then your second, then your third. he watched you write down every instruction in a notebook that was already covered in flour and butter stains. he watched you burn your wrist on a sheet pan and not say a word about it, just run it under cold water and get back to work.
“you should put ointment on that,” he said, not looking up from the dough he was kneading.
“it’s fine.”
“it’s not fine. second drawer on the left. the white tube.”
you hesitated. then you went to the drawer, found the tube, and applied it carefully to the red mark on your wrist. when you came back to the counter, you were smiling.
“you’re nice,” you said.
nanami’s hands stilled on the dough. “i’m not nice. i’m practical.”
“same thing.”
“it’s really not.”
you just kept smiling, and nanami went back to his kneading, and he absolutely did not think about the way your smile made the morning light feel different somehow.
(he thought about it. he thought about it for the rest of the day. he thought about it while he was closing up, and while he was walking home, and while he was lying in bed staring at the ceiling at midnight.
practical, he told himself. you’re also being practical. she’s your employee. this is nothing.)
you were not good at baking. this was an objective fact, and nanami, who valued objective facts above almost everything else, had accepted it by month two. you burned things. you underbaked things. you forgot ingredients entirely and then stood over the oven, watching your sad, deflated creations rise (or, more often, not rise), with an expression of such profound confusion that he almost felt bad for laughing.
“it’s supposed to do that,” he would lie, just to make you feel better.
“really?”
“no.”
“nanami!”
but you were good at other things. you were good with customers, for one— where he was efficient and brusque, you were warm and chatty and remembered everyone’s name and their usual order and the names of their children and their dogs. old mrs. patel, who had been coming to the bakery since it opened and never once smiled at nanami, smiled at you instantly. he had been deeply offended for approximately four seconds before he realized he was just glad someone was making her happy.
the thing about you, nanami realized slowly, over weeks of watching you burn croissants and charm grandmothers and cry over collapsed soufflés only to immediately ask to try again, was that you were kind. genuinely, bone-deep kind.
you brought coffee for the delivery drivers without being asked. you remembered that the elderly man who came in every thursday liked his danish warmed for exactly twelve seconds— not ten, not fifteen, twelve. you left little notes in the back room for nanami to find: “you work too hard!!!!” and “remember to drink water!!!!” and “i hid a protein bar in your coat pocket please eat it <3”
(he had found the protein bar three days later, melted and sad, and had eaten it anyway.)
you asked him questions, too. not just baking questions— though there were plenty of those, endless and repetitive and occasionally concerning in their lack of basic kitchen knowledge— but questions about him.
“why did you start baking?”
“how do you stay so calm all the time?”
“what’s your favorite thing you’ve ever made?”
“do you ever get lonely here, before i show up?”
he had answered them all, slowly at first, then with less resistance. he told you about school, about the office job that had hollowed him out, about the day he had walked away from everything to knead dough in a tiny apartment kitchen at three in the morning. he told you about the satisfaction of a perfect crust, the way bread felt alive under his hands, the peace he had found in something so simple and ancient and real.
you had listened with your whole body, chin propped on your hands, elbows on the counter, eyes never leaving his face. you were technically slacking off but he let it go.
“that’s really beautiful,” you had said when he finished. “i’m glad you found this.”
and then, because you were you, “can i try laminating again? i promise i won’t cry this time.”
(you had cried. he had pretended not to notice. he had also quietly fixed your dough while you were washing your face and let you take all the credit when the pastries came out perfect.)
also, the first time you made him laugh was a tuesday.
you had been tasked with icing a batch of cinnamon rolls, a simple enough job that you had somehow turned into a catastrophe. the icing was too thin, so it ran off the rolls and pooled on the tray. you tried to thicken it with more powdered sugar, but you grabbed the wrong bag and added cornstarch instead. then you tried to fix that by adding milk, which made it worse, and by the time nanami looked over, you were standing in a cloud of white dust, covered head to toe in sticky glaze, holding a whisk like a weapon.
“i don’t know what happened, nanami,” you said, voice strained.
nanami opened his mouth, closed it useleslly. looked at the cinnamon rolls and back at you.
and he just laughed.
instead of a polite chuckle or a quiet exhale through his nose; a genuine laugh that came from somewhere deep in his chest, so unexpected that it surprised even him.
you stared at him, your eyes went wide. then your lips twitched, and you started laughing too, and suddenly the two of you were leaning against the counter, gasping for air, tears streaming down your faces, the ruined cinnamon rolls completely forgotten.
“you’re trouble,” he said when he could finally speak.
“you hired me.”
“a terrible decision. my worst one yet.”
but he was smiling when he said it, and you were smiling back, and when he reached over to wipe a smear of icing off your cheek, his thumb lingered there just a moment too long. neither of you mentioned it.
.
.
.
the thing about you, nanami came to realize, was that you had no idea how endearing you were.
you didn’t notice the way your tongue poked out when you were concentrating or the way you hummed while you worked, tuneless and soft, like a radio playing in another room. you didn’t notice the way you said his name— nanamiii— like it was something precious, tasting each syllable.
“nanami?”
“yes?”
“where do we keep the pastry brush? i forgot.”
“top drawer, under the bench.”
“nanami?”
“yes?”
“the oven is making a funny noise.”
“that’s the timer, sweetheart.”
“oh. right. nanami?”
“yes?”
“i just wanted to say your name again.”
he looked up from the cookies. you were already turned away, reaching for the pastry brush, completely oblivious to the effect you had on him.
he was doomed. completely, utterly, helplessly doomed throughout the months turned into a rhythm.
you learned, slowly. you still burned things, but less often. you still forgot where things were, but you started remembering faster. you still walked into doorframes and tripped over your own feet and once somehow managed to spill an entire bag of flour directly into the industrial mixer while it was running, which sent a cloud of white powder exploding across the entire kitchen.
(“i’m so sorry,” you coughed, white from head to toe. “i’m so sorry, i’ll clean it up, i’m sorry—”
“don’t apologize,” nanami said, already reaching for the broom. “just… don’t do it again.”
“i won’t.”
(you did it again. three weeks later. he pretended not to notice.))
but there were victories too. the first time you pulled a perfect batch of croissants from the oven, golden and flaky and beautiful, you turned to him with such pure, unfiltered joy that he felt his knees go weak.
“look!” you held up the tray like it was a trophy. “i did it! i actually did it!”
“you did,” he agreed. his voice came out softer than he intended. “they’re perfect.”
you beamed at him. there was flour in your hair and butter under your fingernails and a smear of chocolate on your chin from sampling the filling.
nanami wanted to kiss you so badly it was physically painful. he did not. he was a professional. he was your boss. he was reasonable.
instead, he said, “clean up. we open in twenty minutes.”
and you nodded and turned away, still smiling, and nanami stood there for a long moment, staring at the space where you’d been, wondering how he was supposed to keep doing this.
by month four, nanami had started doing things he would never have admitted to. he woke up earlier so he could have coffee ready for you when you arrived, because you always stumbled in looking half-asleep and he had discovered that a warm cup in your hands made you smile before you even fully opened your eyes. he started making extra of your favorite pastries— the ones with the raspberry filling, the ones you made a soft happy noise about every single time—and pretending they were mistakes, “extras” that would go to waste if you didn’t eat them.
he watched you, noticed more things, like how you danced slightly when you thought no one was looking, swaying to music only you could hear.
he noticed the way your hand felt when it brushed against his reaching for the same whisk. the way your laugh sounded when you finally got something right after ten failed attempts. the way you looked first thing in the morning, hair a mess, face bare, still soft with sleep, before you remembered to put on your cheerful customer-service mask.
he noticed all of it. he noticed all of you. the customers noticed too, of course.
“your apprentice is adorable,” said mrs. hayashi, who came in every morning for her black coffee and her almond croissant. “does she have a boyfriend?”
“i don’t know,” nanami said, which was a lie. he knew. you didn’t. you’d mentioned it once, offhand, while you were scrubbing a baking sheet.
“you should ask her out,” mrs. hayashi continued, unbothered by his obvious discomfort. “life’s too short, young man. i almost married a baker once. very strong hands. i liked that.”
“mrs. hayashi—”
“i’m just saying.” she winked at him, grabbed her coffee, and left.
nanami stood there, very strong hands gripping the edge of the counter, and tried not to think about what you would say if he asked you out.
you’d probably be surprised. you’d probably laugh, nervously, because that’s what you did when you were caught off guard. you’d probably say something like oh, you don’t mean that or but i’m your apprentice or i burned a brioche yesterday, nanami, i burned a brioche.
and maybe you’d say yes anyway. maybe you’d look at him with those wide, earnest eyes and say yes, and then what? what then?
he was overthinking. he was always overthinking. it was his greatest flaw and his greatest strength, this tendency to turn every possibility over in his mind until it was smooth as river stone.
across the room, you dropped a measuring cup. it clattered against the floor, bounced twice, and rolled behind the mixer.
“i’ll get it!” you called out, already on your hands and knees.
nanami watched you crawl halfway under the appliance, flour-dusted, determined and utterly ridiculous.
he loved you. god help him, he loved you.
but nanami didn’t tell you, couldn’t tell you. because telling you meant risking everything— the easy mornings, the shared silence, the way you looked at him like he was something good. he had spent too many years in a life that demanded he be someone else, someone harder, someone who didn’t feel things so deeply. you made him feel seen in a way that was terrifying and wonderful and too much.
so he kept baking, watching, making you pastries and calling you sweetheart and pretending his heart didn’t stutter every time you smiled.
and you, oblivious as ever, kept being you.
“nanami! nanami, the croissants are turning… too golden. or bronze, i think.”
he looked up from the sourdough he was scoring, flour dusted across his forearms, glasses slightly askew. you stood in the doorway of the walk-in freezer, hair escaping your ponytail in fifteen different directions, holding a sheet pan of what were supposed to be chocolate croissants but looked more like... abstract expressionism.
“they’re burning, sweetheart,” he said, tilting his head to the side. you blinked and looked down at the croissants. then back at him with eyes so wide and guileless that he felt something in his chest physically clench.
“oh,” you said softly. “that’s... that’s not good, is it?”
nanami set down his lame and walked around the marble counter. he took the smoking sheet pan from your hands with the gentle resignation of someone who had long since accepted his fate.
“no,” he agreed. “but we’ll make more.”
you perked up immediately, bouncing on your heels. “i can help!”
he closed his eyes for exactly one second. breathed. opened them.
“you can sit on the stool and look pretty while i do the laminating.”
“that’s not helping!”
“it’s helping me.”
you went pink. nanami pretended not to notice, turning to salvage what he could from the wreckage, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him completely.
“can i ask you something?” you said later, after the new batch of croissants was safely in the oven and the morning rush had faded to a gentle trickle.
nanami was rolling out dough for danishes, movements precise and economical. “you can ask me anything. you know that.”
“why do you let me stay?”
he looked up. you were sitting on the stool he’d dragged over for you— he’d given up on making you actually sit and just positioned it somewhere out of the way— fiddling with the strings of your apron.
“stay where?” he asked.
“here. at the bakery. with...” you gestured vaguely at him. “you.”
nanami’s hands stilled on the rolling pin. he looked at you and saw something he hadn't noticed before. something anxious beneath your usual brightness. something uncertain.
“you think i want you to leave?” he asked carefully.
“no! i mean, i don’t know. maybe. i’m not...” you huffed, frustrated with yourself. “i’m not good at this, nanami. i burn things and i forget things and you have to redo half of what i do. you could hire someone who actually knows what they’re doing. someone who doesn’t have to ask to show ‘folding’ every single time.”
“you asked once.”
“i asked four times.”
nanami set down the rolling pin, wiped his hands on his apron as walked over to where you sat and crouched down so he was at eye level with you.
“listen to me,” he said quietly. “i don’t care if you ask four hundred times. i don’t care if you burn every croissant between now and the end of time. i don’t care if you never learn the difference between baking soda and baking powder—”
“there’s a difference?”
“—there is, but that’s not the point.” he took a breath. “the point is, i don’t want you to be good at baking. i want you. here. in my kitchen. making a mess and asking questions and being exactly who you are.”
your eyes were very wide and very shiny. “you really want me here?”
“i want you everywhere,” he said, the words coming out before he could stop them. somewhere in the back of his mind he scolded himself for losing his filter.
you stared at him. he stared back.
“nanami,” you whispered.
he stood up abruptly, suddenly aware of how close he was, how easy it would be to close the distance, how he had just said something he could never take back. “i should check the oven.”
“nanami—”
“the tarts.”
“they’re fine, i literally just put it in—”
but he was already moving, putting space between you, because if he stayed there one more second he was going to do something irreversibly stupid like kiss the flour off your soft cheek.
.
.
.
the thing was, nanami kento was not a man who did things halfway.
when he committed to something, he committed completely. the bakery, his suits, his coffee brewing method— everything was done with intention, with care, with a quiet attention to detail that most people didn’t notice but that mattered.
loving you, he realized, was no different.
it wasn’t a lightning strike. it wasn’t a sudden realization. it was slower than that, quieter. it was the accumulation of a thousand small moments— the way you said his name, the way you looked, the notes you left (nanami, i used the last of the vanilla, sorry! xoxo), the way you never gave up, even when you were frustrated, even when you burned something for the fifth time, even when you mixed up the salt and the sugar and ruined an entire batch of dough.
“i’m sorry,” you said, every time. “i’m trying.”
“i know,” he said, every time. “try again.”
at some point, he started keeping track, somewhere around month five. not on paper— never on paper, that would be incriminating— but in his head. a catalog of things you did that made his chest feel tight.
1. the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were reading a recipe from his book.
2. the way you said “good morning” at 4:30 AM through a long yawn.
3. the way you danced, just a little, when you thought no one was watching.
4. the way you laughed the kind of laugh that made other people want to laugh too.
5. the way you looked at him sometimes, like you were trying to figure out a puzzle and you couldn’t quite understand why he was being so patient with you.
(he was patient because he loved you. he was patient because watching you learn, watching you grow, watching you try was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. he was patient because you were worth it.)
with you, the rest of the days that used to be long and lonely passed in a blur of customers and pastries and you sneaking glances at him when you thought he wasn’t looking. nanami pretended not to notice. he was very good at pretending.
one day, by the time the sun began to set, painting the bakery in shades of gold and pink, he knew he couldn’t pretend like he used to anymore.
you were wiping down the display case, humming something off-key, when he set a plate in front of you.
on it sat a single pastry — golden, flaky, perfectly swirled, with a dusting of pearl sugar that caught the light like tiny stars.
“what’s this?” you asked, tilting your head.
“breakfast and lunch,” he said. “since you forgot to eat yours again.”
you opened your mouth to argue, then closed it because he was right. you had forgotten. you always forgot when you were focused, and you were always focused because you wanted so badly to be good at this, to be good for him.
“nanami...”
“eat.” he nudged the plate closer. “that’s an order.”
you took a bite. your eyes went wide and shiny, making his heart do strange, arrhythmic things.
“this is the best thing i’ve ever tasted,” you said around a mouthful of pastry. “what is it?”
“kouign-amann. breton. lots of butter.” he paused. “i made it for you.”
you stopped chewing, stared at him and swallowed.
“you... you made it for me?”
nanami looked away, reaching for a rag to wipe down a counter that was already spotless. “you said you liked caramelized sugar. i just remembered.”
and he had remembered. remembered the way you’d said it weeks ago, offhand, while licking caramel off your thumb. remembered the way your eyes had lit up. remembered everything about you, always, because his brain had apparently decided that you were the most important thing in the world and every detail about you was worth preserving.
the silence stretched. when he finally looked back, you were crying— silent tears tracking through the flour on your cheeks, your mouth wobbling into something that was trying very hard to be a smile.
“oh, no,” he said, immediately moving toward you. “no, no crying in the bakery, that’s unacceptable—”
his hands moved on their own, lifting up to brush away the tears that just kept flowing down your face. your head bobbled with shaky nods as you looked up at him with teary eyes. he was so close, he realised, close enough to see the faint remains of pastry crumbles on the corners of your mouth and caramel on your lips.
you put down the plate and wrapped your arms around him abruptly, shoving your fave into his chest, which he could only accept with his own pathetic attempts at steadying his breath.
“you’re the best.”
“mm, am i?” he murmured as he smoothed down your hair and resisted the urge to kiss the top of your head. “only because i give you free pastry?”
your head shifted, chin resting on his sternum, as you blinked up at him with a beam.
“no one’s ever been this good to me.”
he gulped, looking behind you momentarily, before settling on a small smile and a pat on your head, because he wanted to kiss you so much it seemed like the most challenging thing in the world — not to kiss you breathless.
“it’s the easiest thing in the world, sweetheart.”
this ordinary, extraordinary miracle of being in the same room as you while you ate his pastry was becoming a thing he wanted very much forever.
he wanted to wake up next to you. he wanted to make you breakfast (real breakfast, not just pastries). he wanted to see you in the afternoon light, in the evening dark, in every possible version of every possible day.
he wanted you. why couldn’t he tell you?
every time he worked up the courage, something happened— you burned your hand, or the oven broke, or you looked at him with those big eyes and said something so effortlessly sweet that he forgot how to form words.
(“nanami, you work too hard. you should take a break.”
“i’m fine.”
“you’re not fine. sit down. i’ll make you tea.”
you made him tea. it was terrible— too much sugar, not enough steeping— but he drank every drop because you made it for him.)
he thought of the champagne he bought and hid it in the back fridge. he practiced what he would say, over and over, in the mirror, in the shower, while he walked home at night.
you’re important to me. no, too vague.
i’ve developed feelings for you. no, too clinical.
i love you. yes. simple. true.
as he cleaned up he decided he would tell you on friday. after closing. when the bakery was quiet and the lights were low and he could look you in the eye and finally, finally say what he’d been holding in his chest for months.
he heard shuffling from behind and when he turned back, you were there.
“i love you,” you blurted, standing in the middle of his bakery, face tear-streaked and flour-dusted, holding a half-eaten kouign-amann.
and nanami, who had planned speeches and practiced lines and worried himself sick over the right words, found that he didn’t need any of them.
he crossed the kitchen in three steps. he pulled you into his arms. he held you so tightly that you squeaked.
“i love you too,” he said, and his voice cracked because he was feeling things completely beyond his control. “i love you.”
you were crying again. he was crying a little too, though he would deny it later if asked.
“a few months ago, i thought you were going to fire me,” you mumbled into his chest. “i thought—”
“fire you?” he pulled back just enough to look at you, incredulous. “sweetheart, i would never. i couldn’t. i—” he laughed, breathless and disbelieving. “i have been trying to figure out how to tell you i love you for months. i have champagne in the fridge. i have a whole speech memorized.”
you blinked. “you have champagne?”
“that’s what you’re focusing on?”
“i’ve never had champagne before.”
nanami stared at you. you stared back, eyes red, nose running, looking like the most beautiful disaster he had ever seen.
“okay,” he said. “okay. champagne first. then we figure out the rest.”
he kept one arm around you as he walked to the fridge. you stayed pressed against his side, small and real. he pulled out the bottle, popped the cork (it hit the ceiling, left a small dent, he didn’t care), and poured two glasses.
you took yours with both hands, like a child being offered something new to drink. you sniffed it. you took a tiny sip. your eyes went wide.
“it’s sweet. i like it.”
nanami chuckled. he couldn’t help it. he was laughing and pouring champagne and standing in his bakery with the woman he loved, and everything felt impossibly, absurdly right.
“we’re going to do this properly,” he said, setting down his glass. he took yours too, set it next to his, and cupped your face in his hands. “i’m going to kiss you now. is that okay?”
you nodded, so fast he was surprised you didn’t get whiplash.
he kissed you; it was soft at first— gentle, questioning, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones. his hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through the messy tangles of your hair, and he kissed you like he was making up for lost time, as if he had been starving and you were the first meal he’d had in months.
you made a small, surprised sound against his mouth— something between a gasp and a laugh— and then you melted into him, your fingers curling into the front of his apron, pulling him closer.
“nanami,” you breathed out and he swallowed the word right then.
“kento,” he said against your lips. “call me kento.”
your eyes fluttered open. you were so close he could count your lashes, could see the tiny flecks of gold in your irises, could feel the warmth of your breath on his skin.
“kento,” you whispered softly, like a secret you were giving him and him alone. it sounded even sweeter than his last name from your lips.
he kissed you again.
and again.
and again.
“i just want you to know—mmph—”
“later.”
“but i was going to say—”
“later, sweetheart.”
you laughed against his mouth, which he felt it everywhere— in his chest, in his hands, in the way his knees suddenly felt less reliable than they had five minutes ago. you were laughing while he was trying to kiss you senseless, and somehow that made it better.
“you’re very bossy,” you said, pulling back just far enough to look at him. your lips were pink and slightly swollen. you looked thoroughly, beautifully kissed.
“i’m your boss,” he said. “it’s in the job description.”
“the job description didn’t say anything about the boss kissing his apprentice on the bakery floor after hours, kento!”
“consider it an addendum.”
you giggled, the sound lovely against his eardrums. all he wanted to do was make you do it again.
so he kissed the corner of your mouth. then your cheek. then the tip of your nose, which made you scrunch up your face in a way that was almost unbearably cute.
outside, the rain had stopped. the sun was setting, painting the bakery in shades of orange and gold. a customer knocked on the locked door, then gave up and walked away.
nanami didn’t notice. he was too busy kissing you, his airheaded apprentice, his beautiful disaster, his home.
.
.
.
later— much later, after the champagne was gone and the pastries were eaten and the two of you had migrated to the floor behind the counter because your legs gave out and he wasn’t much better— you looked up at him from where your head rested on his chest.
“kento?”
“yes, sweetheart?”
“i’m still going to burn things.”
he pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “i know.”
“and forget where the vanilla is.”
“i know.”
“and walk into doorframes.”
“i’m counting on it.”
you smiled, sleepy and satisfied, and curled closer to him. his arm tightened around your shoulders.
“i love you,” you murmured, already half-asleep.
“i love you too,” he said, to your hair, to the quiet bakery, to the life he hadn’t known he was waiting for.
outside, the streetlights flickered on. the last of the day’s warmth faded from the windows. and nanami kento, practical man that he was, decided that this— right here, right now— was the only thing that had ever truly mattered.
he closed his eyes. held you close. and let himself be happy.
Synopsis: in which you're upset with your husband and won't respond to his messages, so he has to resort to contacting you during work hours... using your work emails
Warnings: fluff, slightly suggestive, playful arguing — no one's actually upset, features guests stars (one gets bullied).
Good morning, dear,
Or rather, it would be, if my wife so much as looked in my direction this morning. Instead, I find myself writing to you like some forgotten soul behind enemy lines, using this means of communication as if I am but a mere stranger begging for a moment of your time. It is humiliating. Your refusal to hear your husband out is noted and begrudgingly endured but I forgive you (see? It is not so hard at all).
Please just answer your messages. We have a data plan for a reason.
Love, always,
Your Kento
Hello Kento,
I hope you are well.
Please refrain from contacting me via my work email. It is inappropriate and annoyingly endearing. Let me be mad in peace. Thank you.
Best wishes,
Your Wife
Hello to you too, sweetheart,
I must admit your response is both upsetting and encouraging. Truthfully, I wasn't expecting you to respond at all. Of course, I wish your email was more welcoming but beggars and whatnot.
What must I do, my love?
I have apologised. Not once or twice, but countless times. So many times now it feels like ‘I’m so sorry’ were my first words. I rose early to prepare your favourite breakfast — drove clear across the city to find the precise ingredients (you and I both know there is only one acceptable brand of jam in this household). I plated it neatly, included a smiley face, just as you like it, though, I observed, it was met with a frown, thus defeating the spirit of these things.
Your work clothes were laid out, ironed with care and to perfection, if I may say so myself. I made sure the heating was on well before you awoke, so the chill wouldn’t bother you so — I’ve seen how cold mornings test your…patience, should we say. Your lunch was packed and ready, with a handwritten note tucked inside, although I’m sure you carelessly tossed it aside in your bid to destroy my will to live on a spiritual level. It was a new recipe, by the way. I hope it suits your taste. Do let me know. Perhaps by softening your glare when you arrive home since apparently smiles are beneath you.
Even last night, I relinquished the duvet entirely — though I must admit, it was less an offering and more a tactical surrender after you ripped it from my body without mercy. I woke up frozen, on the brink of pneumonia. Need I remind you, I am at a tender age?
And after all of that…
You walked past me.
Not a word.
Not even a glance.
You washed the dishes (which is, and I cannot stress this enough, my responsibility), and shoved my work clothes off the bed because — what was it? The sleeve was ‘encroaching’ upon your own and the cotton needed space because ‘husband air is toxic?’
That was particularly hurtful. Entirely uncalled for. My blazer may never recover.
Still, I could take it. I could take all of it. Because I admit my fault and I recognise my need to be punished.
But to leave without kissing me goodbye?
That, my love, was unconscionable.
A line crossed. A declaration of war. An admittance of lesser character. I am disappointed in you. Thus, I now join your unrelenting form on the S.S. Marital Displeasure. Let’s see how we fare at sea, together.
Yours, unwaveringly,
Kento— the husband you once swore never to abandon
P.S. Dinner is on me tonight. Please let me know what time you’ll be home.
P.P.S. You looked radiant this morning. Even in silence. Even in a mood. You’re still the most beautiful thing in the room.
Kento,
You infuriatingly adorable man.
All those things you listed about this morning are things you do everyday. I know that was supposed to guilt trip me, but that just annoyed me more cause I get it — you’re totally perfect and handsome and tall and you smell nice. Ugh, you’re the worst.
Lunch was yummy, by the way. Ten out of ten. The note, which I didn’t carelessly throw away mind you (that was very rude to assume, how dare you) telling me ‘you are loved even when you’re grumpy’ was not. I am not grumpy, Kento. I am aggrieved.
You have aggrieved me.
Also, don’t try to guilt trip me about the cover hogging. You run hot and you know we have a spare duvet in the closet. Many times now, I've begged you to take it because I know I have bad sleeping habits BUT you refused. You said, need I remind you, that you insist on sharing one to be as close to me as possible. Your words.
The work clothes thing was an accident. I didn’t mean to push it off, and I was trying to stay mad so I made up some lie. Tell your blazer I’m sorry. Tell its owner I will never forgive nor forget. You know what you did.
And I don’t want you to join my ship. We can’t both be on it. We’ll sink…damn that’s metaphorical. For your own good, get off now whilst you still can.
Lukewarm wishes,
Your Wife
P.S. I’ll be home later than you, I have some things to finish
P.P.S. There was only one other person in the room and that was you, and even then you were clearly the more beautiful one Mr. Wakes Up With A Five O’Clock Shadow And Silky Golden Locks. That pissed me off so much more. Try to be less perfect, thank you.
My dearest,
I’ve read your message precisely three times and still, I’m not entirely sure whether I’ve been forgiven or sentenced. However, I feel a sense of optimism, foolish or not.
Let me begin with your opening line: ‘infuriatingly adorable’— it is not quite a compliment but I accept it with caution regardless. I am adorable and I understand that you wish I wasn’t. As soon as possible, I will find a cure.
Moreover, in reference to my morning route, you’re right, of course. The tasks I listed are things I do every day. Not as some grand gesture, but because loving you — actively, attentively, without pause — is part of my daily routine. Like ironing my shirts or making my coffee. It’s muscle memory now. If I were to stop, I fear I might just malfunction and catch fire. That said, if you are aggrieved — not grumpy, as I so mistakenly suggested, please forgive me for that too — then I humbly bow to your deliverance, Lady Justice. Though I maintain that the distinction is rather blurry when you’re stomping past me with furrowed brows and lips pressed into a line sharp enough to cut marble, lips I dare say I wish I could kiss into their usual form.
Regarding the duvet — yes, I recall saying that. I stand by it. Even if I must freeze to death one night beneath your siege of unconscious theft, I would still rather reach out and find you beside me than not. You will indubitably note that that was unnecessarily dark, I’m sure, and you’ll then make a comment about the phase we shall not talk about that I went through in my youth.
Further, the blazer has accepted your apology. It insists you take it off me tonight. (Is that too forward? You usually love when I’m forward but I worry this will only enrage you more, likely in a way that will leave me dangerously sore. Perhaps that is what I intend. I cannot tell anymore. I just miss your touch).
As for the note, I didn’t assume you threw it away. I merely feared it. I know you well enough to know that even when you’re furious, you’re still gentle with the things I give you. It’s one of those things you do that melt my heart.
Lastly, your ship — this solitary vessel of marital vengeance — sounds lonely. It is precisely that reason however that I must stay aboard, respectfully.
With all my love,
Kento – your infuriatingly tall, overly warm, occasionally smug but entirely yours husband
P.S. I’ll have dinner ready by the time you’re home.
P.P.S. I will attempt to be less perfect, though I make no promises. I’ve spent years mastering my five o’clock shadow, it practically comes in on its own when it senses you’re at your most vulnerable. As for my silky, golden locks, I owe that to you and your hair mask. Thank you.
Kento.
I’ve read your message. Twice. Once dramatically, on break. Once again, aloud, with emphasis, so the plants in my office could also judge you. And I must say...
The audacity. The calm. The poetry. The charm.
Ugh. Disgusting. I hate how you win arguments by being emotionally intelligent and devastatingly eloquent. Stop.
Also, your blazer is so dramatic. I was always going to take it off you, that was never in question. And yes, I love when you're forward. I loved it just now. Reminds me of that time we snuck off into the janitor's closet and...
Moving on.
I will admit (reluctantly) that your words were very lovely, they usually are, and the image of you freezing like a noble idiot because you'd rather suffer than part from me for even a life-saving second was both tragic and romantic and exactly the kind of behaviour that makes staying mad at you basically impossible. I hate that for me.
But fine. F I N E.
You may stay aboard my metaphorical ship, provided you bring snacks and acknowledge that I am the captain and you’re just here for deck-swabbing privileges and forehead kisses. You’ll be handsomely rewarded ;)
Love, Your Wife
(Still aggrieved. But slightly less so. Like… 69% less.)
P.S. If you’re trying to seduce me via dinner, it’s working. You might get that kiss. Or two. Depends how good it is.
P.P.S. Don’t think I’d miss the opportunity to mention MCR Kento. Your past will haunt you forever.
Dear YN and Nanami Kento,
I hope you are both well.
Do forgive me for intruding but, as Head of HR and as your friend, I feel a need to remind you both that you are liaising using your work emails which are monitored by HR. Resolving marital disputes on company hours and company mail is not recommended nor permitted. Please set this aside for when you get home. I also wish to remind you that your offices are a short distance from each other. There doesn’t seem to be a need to be communicating via emails at all. From my desk, I have been watching you two write your emails with smiles on your faces.
I suspect neither of you are mad at each other at all. So, YN, please just forgive him already. He hasn’t done much work all day, whereas your productivity has somehow increased. We should probably hold a meeting to discuss both changes. I am concerned.
Lastly, your fight is distracting everyone. One colleague described it as ‘funny,’ another ‘sweet,’ and someone else called it ‘foreplay’ — I’m sure you understand why exactly I intervened. You are both already on two strikes. Please don't make me remind you of what exactly what happened the last two times. The company is still paying for therapy sessions for the affected employees.
Do better.
Best wishes,
Ijichi Kiyotaka
P.S. Why were you even mad? Did he forget an anniversary? Comment on your weight?
Dear Kento,
Did not realise the whole office was invested in this. No wonder the intern was giving me a look and Sharon from IT told me that she and her husband also fight like this to ’spice up’ their love life, and that its best when the husband gets mad too. TMI but appreciated. Are you even capable of getting mad at me?
Well, anyway, you heard the man. Let’s continue this conversation at home.
And Ijichi, I know you’re reading this, you Peeping Tom. I hope you know we’re going to make sweet, dirty love tonight. All night. Bring this up to the Big Boss, I dare you. I know you haven’t forgotten the huge favour you owe me for beating Gojo up when he needlessly sent you on errands around the city. Please stand up for yourself. Do better, as you say.
Kento, let’s go home together tonight. I need to apologise to your blazer as soon as possible and catch up on kisses expeditiously. In fact, expect a knock on your office door.
Love,
Your wife
Dear Nanami, and Ijichi because you're reading these,
He sat on my bunny plushie yesterday. He flattened her.
I'm mad again.
Hate,
YN
P.S. Hair mask rights have been revoked. Buy your own.
Dear wife and Peeping Tom colleague,
You have no appreciation for the work I put in to get back into my wife's good graces. All your disclaimers about simply doing your job were clearly written in deceit since your gossiping self could not resist prying. Do not think I haven't overheard you collecting bets on why she was mad at me in the break room.
Please expect Gojo's presence in your office with some new, overbearing task soon.
You're welcome.
Worst wishes (to Ijichi),
Nanami Kento
And nothing but love (to my wife),
Ken
Ken,
You're so hot when you're all assertive. Wanna get strike three? Preferably in your office, on your desk?
Gojo can distract everyone for an hour...or two.
Lust,
Your Wife
Dear Nanami, YN, and my favourite Peeping Tom,
This is what happens in the office?
Wow, maybe I should get a desk job (lol that's probably what Nanami's getting right now, lucky guy).
Can't believe I was slaving away, keeping the world safe, and you two were slacking off and getting it on. I'm expecting a baby Nanami soon. Make me the godfather pls pls pls
Stay sexy,
The Strongest
P.S. Can I watch?
P.P.S. I’m kidding
P.P.P.S. …Unless?
⊹ ࣪ ˖🕰️୭˚. ᵎᵎ🗝️ spy au where field agent!gojo is in love with the voice in his earpiece — mission supervisor!you.
gojo satoru has never seen your face.
he doesn’t know the little things, the things that would probably ruin him if he did.
like if you tilt your head when you’re concentrating or if you bite your lip during tense extractions. your hair— does it fall in soft waves around your face during those long night shifts, or is it always pulled back tight and neat? is it long or short? do you push it out of your eyes with ink-stained fingers? glasses or contacts? he imagines thin wire frames, the kind that might slip down your nose when you’re leaning close to a monitor. and when you take them off at the end of a shift, does your face look softer? younger? more tired?
coffee or tea? he bets tea. something herbal and gentle to steady those endless nights, probably in a mug that's chipped at the rim because you’ve had it forever. does your smile break through when no one's watching, or do you keep it locked in a straight, professional line? he wonders if you laugh at dumb videos on your phone during downtime. if you hum when you think no one’s listening. if you have a favorite blanket you curl up in after rough missions, staring at the ceiling and trying to forget like he does.
all he knows is your voice.
smooth as silk over steel. low and steady, wrapping around his name like a warm blanket, like you’re holding it close, turning it over in your mind before letting it slip. it's been two years of missions, of stolen moments through crackling earpieces, and it's ruining him— slowly, like poison he can't stop sipping. he's addicted. and you don't even know.
—
“you're late.”
your voice crackles in his earpiece, crisp against the humid night air.
gojo vaults over the security barrier at the museum’s perimeter, completely ignoring the side entrance with its blinking keypad and all its boring, logical options. his shoes hit the marble floor lightly, echoing faintly in the vast atrium. moonlight filters through skylights, painting everything in silver and shadow, and for a second he just breathes it in.
“i prefer the term ‘fashionably late’,” he murmurs, straightening his tailored black suit. he adjusts his cufflinks— onyx, engraved with a subtle infinity symbol— like he’s strolling into a charity gala instead of infiltrating for a classified retrieval.
a soft inhale, barely audible over the line. he catches it every time, files it away in the folder in his heart labeled “proof she's real.”
“you're twenty-three seconds behind schedule,” you say finally. “adjust or risk exposure.”
he smiles, teeth flashing in the dark. “you were counting?”
in the brief silence of his earpiece he can picture you pressing your lips together, deciding whether to engage.
“...move forward. east corridor. camera rotation in twelve seconds. go.”
he nods, knowing you’ll see him through the security camera.
of course he does everything you say. your word is law in the field— his north star in the chaos. and god, doesn't that just say everything.
you are control. mission supervisor. strategist. the omniscient eyes in the sky, patched into every feed, every sensor, every heartbeat monitor from a bunker twenty miles out. the voice that guides him through dark corridors and darker choices.
calm, precise, efficient— never flustered, never impressed, never amused.
at least, not ever in ways anyone else can notice. gojo lives for the tells, the tiny fractures in your armor. your tone drops half a degree when he pulls a reckless stunt, like dodging bullets blind. the microscopic hesitation before you bite back at his teases. the rare slip where you say his name first—satoru—not agent gojo, not gojo-san. just satoru, soft at the edges like you’re testing how it feels in your mouth.
he replays those moments in debriefs, in safehouses, in the dead hours before sleep when the world goes quiet and all he has is his own thoughts and the echo of your voice. he wonders if you do the same, if you ever lie awake too, staring at the dark and remembering the way he said your name.
“two guards ahead,” you say, voice threading through the quiet. “pattern loop: left circles every fourteen steps, right checks his phone at thirty-two. blind spot in five.”
gojo slows, melting into the alcove shadows. the air smells of polished stone and faint ozone from the climate controls, old money and older secrets.
“what would i do without you, my guardian angel?” he whispers, and even through the mic you can hear he's grinning.
“...complete the mission on time. without the commentary.”
“cold as ice, control.”
five seconds tick by in his head.
“blind spot. now. move left, two meters, then hold.”
he slips forward, silent as a ghost in motion. perfect execution. he can’t let you down, can he?
because no matter how much he jokes, no matter how much he plays, he trusts you more than anyone he's ever known. you’ve mapped his world a hundred times over. never wrong, not even once. not even when intel went sideways last year in tokyo and everyone else's data was garbage and he was stuck. you held him together through that whole nightmare, voice steady as a hand on his back, and he's never forgotten.
artifact is secured in under three minutes: a small flash drive, full of very important files and blackmail material disguised as jade amulet, now tucked in his inner pocket against his heart. extraction route clean— no tails, no glitches.
everything's too quiet so gojo decides to stir the pot, because he's gojo, and he’s never met a boundary he didn't want to gently, playfully destroy.
he pauses near a glass display case, ancient swords glinting under soft lights. pretends to scan for threats.
“angel.”
“...what.” clipped, wary. he loves when you get wary. it means you’re somewhat interested in what he has to say.
“do you ever think about me?”
silence stretches, thick as fog rolling in from the bay. he grins wider, pulse kicking up. “like, when i’m off-duty. do you sit in that chair and wonder what i'm doing? maybe worry a little? picture me out there, charming my way through some bar? or—” he tilts his head, considering. “—do you ever think about me in other ways?”
deflection, classic. but you didn’t say no. and there’s that half-breath again, the one that betrays you, the one that says he's getting under your skin whether you want him there or not.
he chuckles softly. “noted. but you’re dodging.”
“focus, satoru.”
there it is. he steps into the grid, body syncing to your rhythm, and for a few perfect seconds it’s just this— you guiding him, him following, the two of you moving together like dancers who've never met but know every step by heart.
halfway through a secondary alarm shrieks, not from your system, not his. unknown origin, piercing and raw, ripping through the quiet like a knife. gojo freezes mid-stride, grid lasers humming inches from his sleeve. his heart stutters.
“control?”
no answer. just static, spitting like rain on hot asphalt.
“hey.” he mutters, quieter now, edge sharpening into something dangerous. “that’s not you, right? talk to me.”
more static. on your end, his biometrics spike—heart rate 112, adrenaline surging, all that easy confidence crystallizing into focus. seconds later your voice finally appears in his ear but tighter, laced with something that sounds almost like worry.
“satoru. extraction route compromised. new team inbound— six hostiles, armed heavy. rifles, suppressors, no building manifest. they’re ghosts.”
“numbers? positions?”
“...three on east flank, two rear, one overwatch on the roof. thirty seconds out.”
he exhales slowly, feeling more in control. squares his shoulders, cracks his neck, steadies himself. for you. “you sound worried.”
your mic picks up the faint tap of your fingers on the console, faster than usual, less controlled.
“...i’m recalculating. new path: service tunnels, northwest exit. avoid the atrium, satoru.”
he hears it— the crack in the calm, the way your voice wavers just slightly on his name, and something in his chest tightens, warm and painful all at once.
you’re worried about him. it feels good for a moment, but then the fight erupts in the east corridor.
six against one. they’re pros: coordinated strikes, flashbangs prepped, the kind of shadows who don’t leave witnesses, but gojo’s better and faster and limitless when he needs to be.
your voice stays glued to him through it all, the only thing keeping him anchored.
a blade whistles too close— carbon steel, slicing air toward his ribs. time slows. he sees it coming, knows he can dodge, but—
“left, satoru! now!”
he twists before the syllable ends, elbow cracking the attacker's jaw. body hits floor with a heavy thud.
six down in ninety seconds. clean. no traces. he stands in the middle of them, breathing hard, and all he can think is your voice saying his name like that.
—
extraction vehicle, a sleek black suv, screeches up three minutes early, tires smoking on wet pavement. he slides into the back, breath steadying, suit barely rumpled. adrenaline hums under his skin, but underneath that is something is calmer and softer.
“mission complete,” he says, voice light again even though his heart’s still racing. “try not to sound impressed.”
“good work.” you say softly into his ear, like sunlight breaking through clouds after a storm.
he leans his head back against the leather, smiling at the shadowed ceiling. “say that again.”
“no.”
“ah, angel...” he lets your name hang in the air, not really waiting for you to oblige. he can picture you— maybe pinching the bridge of your nose, maybe pressing a hand to your chest without realizing why.
“...you did good, satoru.”
velvet over command, warmth under ice. his chest tightens, does something complicated and terrifying. satoru smiles.
“you know,” he says lightly, even though nothing about this feels light, “one of these days i'm gonna request a face-to-face briefing. put a face to the voice that owns me.”
you immediate response is unsurprisingly, “denied. protocol 7b— supervisors remain remote.”
he laughs, genuine and soft. “you don't even know what i was gonna ask.”
“you ask that every mission. same line.”
“and one day you’ll say yes. i’ll bring coffee. or tea. your call. maybe those little cakes from that place in ginza— the ones with the strawberry inside? you strike me as someone who’s like those. sweet thing hidden under all that professional exterior.”
he waits in the silence, hopes for a gentle let down, holds his breath without meaning to.
“focus on debrief. safehouse in five.”
he opens one eye, staring at nothing in the dark of the suv and smiling anyway. “you didn’t say no.”
static swells. connection severs with a click.
—
in the control room, miles away under fluorescent hum, you don’t move for a long time. hands frozen on the console, screens flickering to standby. your heart hammers— too fast, too loud in the empty bunker. too loud in your ears, in your chest, in the quiet that settles around you like a blanket.
his biometrics glow steady on the main monitor: pulse 78, vitals green. alive. safe. again. again. again.
you close the channel log, fingers trembling just once. reach up and touch your own face— the tired eyes, the scar on your jaw from a desk-job gone wrong years ago, the way your lips are curving right now when no one's watching.
you mutter under your breath, so quietly the mics and ai don’t catch it—
“don’t ask for that, satoru.”
because if he ever sees your face, if he ever brings you coffee and little cakes from ginza and looks at you with those endless blue eyes… you're not sure you could stay just a voice, control, just the calm, precise, efficient handler who never breaks.
and in this line of work, voices don't break.
but god, for him? for the sound of his laugh in the dark, for the way he calls you angel like it's something precious, for the thought of strawberry cakes and maybe, just maybe, his hand reaching for yours across a table...
for him, you almost want to.
his file’s still open on your screen. you’ve read it a hundred times. you know his birthday, his blood type, his favorite foods (sweets, especially anything with strawberries), his next of kin (none), his psychological profile (concerning, flagged for narcissistic tendencies, but you’ve always thought that was wrong— he's not narcissistic, he’s just lonely and covers it with bright shiny things).
you close the file.
you don't close the image of his smile, burned into your memory from mission recordings you definitely shouldn't have saved.
outside, the world keeps turning. somewhere out there, he’s probably already planning his next ridiculous request, his next tease, his next chance to make you almost laugh.
you pour yourself a cup of tea (herbal, to steady your nerves) from a mug that’s chipped at the rim (you’ve had it forever) and let yourself wonder, just for a moment, what it would be like to say yes.
and you—
then you straighten your spine, smooth your face into professional lines, and wait for the next mission. for another agent. for the next voice in your ear.
it’s enough. it has to be enough.
—
he touches the jade amulet through his jacket, right over his heart.
You look up from your book to see your husband standing over the bassinet with his arms crossed, his brow raising as he looks down inside of it with a tiny scowl. He stays like that for about a minute. You sit up in your shared bed, then call out to him. “Ryo.”
“Hm.” He doesn’t look up.
“May I ask what you are doing?”
“The little brat is staring,” Sukuna says matter-of-factly. “I am simply staring at her in return.”
Inside of the bassinet, your baby daughter coos. Her scarlet eyes—exactly like her father’s—glitter with interest. You hear her giggle, and you scoff lightly and return your gaze to your book. “She thinks you’re playing a game.”
“I am doing no such thing.”
You flip a page. “Put a hand over your face for a few seconds.” He doesn’t respond, but you know he listens. “M’kay, now lift.” There’s silence for a few seconds, then your daughter bursts into a fit of giggles.
Sukuna rolls his eyes. “I do not understand what is so entertaining about that.” When you look up again, you see that he’s covering his face again, then revealing himself to get the same reaction from the baby.
“It’s called peek-a-boo. It’s a game most babies love to play.”
The little princess babbles as she lifts her arms up, and Sukuna tilts his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
You snicker. “One: You’ll figure out what she’s saying the more you talk with her. Two: She wants you to pick her up.”
He sighs dramatically, then reaches into the bassinet to pick up the small girl. Though she has her father’s eyes, she has your hair, the shape of your nose, and your ears. She also has your fearlessness, because she smiles directly in the face of the king of curses. Now at his eye level, she reaches her arms towards him excitedly. “What is it now, you brat? I’m already carrying you.”
He looks over at you in question, and your smile grows. “She wants to touch your face,” you say.
“Why?”
“Because she’s a baby, and she’s curious.”
Sukuna pulls her closer, and once in range, his daughter lays her tiny hands against his marked face. She giggles more, and you can see his eyes soften. “Hmph. You have your mother’s smile.”
— — — —
The next morning, you walk into the kitchen where you hear Sukuna speaking with someone. When he turns to the side, you see your daughter nestled in the crook of one of his muscular arms, staring up at him as he concluded whatever story he was telling her.
“...At the end of the battle, only I remained. Victory was mine.”
The baby babbles excitedly, and Sukuna scoffs. “Ha, you will do no such thing. How do you expect to join me in battle when you aren’t even a year old, brat?”
Her face scrunches in what looks like annoyance, and she repeats to him what he taught her the night before. “Hmph.”
You burst into laughter, and Sukuna raises a brow at the little girl in his arms. “Great. Your mother’s smile, and her attitude.”
This long-distance relationship just wasn’t working for Sukuna anymore.
He can’t see you. Can’t touch you. Can’t put you in a headlock, smack your ass, bite you, or flick your forehead. At this point, are you two even together, or is this just an overpriced pen-pal situation?
He calls you clingy, but let’s be real—anyone with half a brain cell and a functioning set of eyes can see that he’s the real problem here. And the worst part? He knows exactly what he’s doing. He just doesn’t care. He does not want to be saved.
This man is glued to his phone every single minute, refreshing your messages like his life depends on it. And if you don’t answer fast enough? He turns into a grumpy, overgrown toddler, making everyone around him suffer.
At this point, it’s not just him begging you to visit—it’s his friends, his brother, maybe even some strangers off the street. They’re exhausted. They have had enough. Somebody, please, for the love of all things holy, put this man out of his misery and just go see him before they all lose their minds.
After two months, you finally decided to just surprise Sukuna. It was early in the morning, and you didn’t tell a single soul you were coming. Not even his friends— they would’ve blown your cover out of sheer relief. You missed him too, sure… just not as much as he missed you.
You let yourself in with your key, slipping inside like a thief in the night (except this was your man and your house, so..?). He was still asleep, sprawled out on the bed in nothing but black boxers and a tight black T-shirt that was clinging to him a little too well.
And this? This right here is where you questioned everything.
How did you pull this man? Seriously. What divine force was on your side that day? He looked so damn good, it was criminal. His tattoos. The way that shirt stretched over his muscles. The black boxers. The absolute mess that was his pink hair. It was all too much.
You wanted to jump his bones on sight, but you contained yourself. Barely.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, you gently rub his back, whispering softly, "Sukuna… baby, wake up." He doesn’t move a muscle. When he’s asleep, he’s as still as stone, completely unreachable—unless, of course, the air shifts in the room just right. Then, he’s up in an instant, sharp and alert, like a predator on the prowl. But right now? Nothing. Not a twitch.
You try again, your voice softer this time, "Love... baby... Suku... wake up... mm, I'm here..."
At the sound of your voice, he stirs. A low grunt escapes his throat, and his eyes flutter open, but the confusion on his face is enough to make your heart melt. He blinks, disoriented, as if trying to process what’s real. And in that moment, you can’t help but smile. He’s so adorable, even in his most groggy, unguarded state.
The fact that you—just you—can see him like this, can call him any type of names and still think he's the cutest thing alive, fills you with a warmth you didn’t know you needed.
He groggily shifts, trying to register what’s going on. But when his eyes finally meet yours, that familiar spark of recognition flickers in them. It’s like everything else fades away.
“Y/N?”
His voice is always deep, but in the morning, it’s something else entirely—low and rough, the kind that you can feel vibrating in your chest.
“Did you miss me?” you tease, a small smile tugging at your lips.
For a good thirty seconds, he just stares at you, blinking slowly, his red eyes still heavy with sleep. And then—without a word—he grabs you, pulling you down onto the bed with him.
The hug alone could’ve crushed you. His arms lock around you like a vice, his grip unrelenting, like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. His face remains serious, unreadable—but inside? Oh, inside, he’s jumping up and down like a kid on Christmas morning.
He is this close to giggling, to kicking his legs like a teenage girl with a hopeless crush.
But he won’t. Absolutely not.
Instead, he just holds you tighter, burying his face in your neck, pretending like he’s not about to combust from how happy he is.
You can feel the way his breathing evens out against your skin, like he’s grounding himself with your presence. His nose brushes along your neck, slow and almost lazy, but there's a little tremble in the way he exhales, like he still can’t believe you're actually here.
“I thought I was dreaming,” he mutters, voice muffled into your shoulder.
You run your fingers through his hair, gently scratching at his scalp the way he likes. “You always say that when I show up.”
“Because I never think I deserve it,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it.
Your heart clenches.
You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are still heavy-lidded, lashes fanning over flushed cheeks, but there's something softer in them now—something he only shows you.
“You’re ridiculous,” you whisper, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “You’ve been acting like a feral cat in a thunderstorm for two months straight. I was afraid your friends were gonna start sending me ransom letters.”
That earns the tiniest twitch of a smile. Barely there. But you caught it.
“I wasn’t that bad,” he grumbles.
“Oh, you were worse,” you laugh, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
Suddenly, he pulled back—and in one swift motion, yanked his shirt off and tossed it somewhere across the room.
You blinked. “Excuse me?”
He smirked like the devil himself. “Now that you’re here,” he said, voice dropping, “let’s get down to business, woman.”
You frowned, crossing your arms. “Business? I just got here.”
“And I’ve been waiting months,” he said, already reaching for you again. “You think I’ve been sitting here practicing patience and self-control? No, sweetheart. I’ve been suffering.”
“Suffering?” you scoffed, though your cheeks were already warm.
“Agonizing,” he corrected, deadly serious. “Like a man dying in the desert. And you—” he pointed at you dramatically, “—are the only oasis that can quench my thirst.”
You stared at him.
He stared back, completely unapologetic.
And then you burst out laughing. “You’ve been watching those trashy romance dramas again, haven’t you?”
“Shut up and take your clothes off,” he growled, yanking you back into his chest.
--
Well, he put you through it.
The second things started, he didn’t let up—wouldn’t even let you move. Like he was trying to make up for all the time apart in one night. No breaks, no mercy. Just Sukuna, with that feral look in his eyes, making it very, very clear just how much he’d missed you.
When it comes to sex with him, there’s no such thing as “taking it slow.” He’s intense. Greedy sadistic bastard.
By the end of it, you were completely spent—legs shaking, voice hoarse, body humming with overstimulation—and he?
He came so hard he passed out on top of you. Just collapsed like a full-grown jungle cat that wore itself out hunting. Arms wrapped around you, dead weight pressing you into the mattress, and a low satisfied grunt rumbling in his chest.
So yeah. He missed you. A lot.
You laid there for a few minutes, trying to catch your breath, hair a mess, skin sticky and flushed, heart still racing. His head was tucked into your neck, breathing deep and slow, already asleep.
You shifted a little beneath him, tapping at his back.
“Sukuna. Hey—get off, you’re heavy.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch.
“Suku. Babe. You’re crushing my lungs.”
A beat of silence. Then, a soft, almost childish grumble:
“Mine…”
You blinked. “What?”
He nuzzled deeper into your neck, voice sleepy and muffled. “Mine. Stay still.”
“You’re literally crushing me—”
“Die then. Still mine.”
You snorted, trying not to laugh, even as he wrapped one of his massive arms tighter around your waist like a damn seat belt. It was useless. You were trapped. Claimed. Claimed by a half-conscious, overgrown menace of a man with not enough self-control.
“…Fine,” you sighed, brushing his hair back from his face. “But if you drool on me again, I swear to god—”
Extra:
3 hours later...
You were still drifting between sleep and reality, body aching in all the right places. Sukuna was no better—completely sprawled beside you, arm draped over your waist like you were his favorite plushie. His breathing was slow, warm against your shoulder. He hadn’t even moved yet.
Eventually, he lifted his head groggily from your skin, eyes heavy-lidded, hair wild like he lost a fight with a thunderstorm. Lips red and swollen, scratch marks visible on his chest and neck. He looked wrecked.
In the best possible way.
You couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight of him.
“Why are you laughing?” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep and pure bass.
You were about to answer, still giggling like a fool under the covers, when—
BANG.
His bedroom door slammed open.
“Oh my god, it’s too early for this—Sukuna, please, stop moping—”
“Bro, we brought you breakfast ‘cause you haven’t eaten in like, two days—”
“IF YOU’RE GONNA DIE OF HEARTBREAK, DO IT QUIETLY—”
The room exploded with voices as Uraume, Gojo, Geto, and Toji stormed in like a damn intervention squad, expecting to find Sukuna in his usual spiral: half-dead, face-down in takeout, and angrily listening to toxic love songs.
What they didn't expect… was you.
Or him. Completely naked. Tangled up with you in the aftermath of what could only be described as biblical levels of destruction.
They all froze.
Eyes wide. Mouths open. Silence like a slap.
Sukuna sat up, completely bare-assed and utterly unfazed. He looked over his shoulder at them slowly—murder in his eyes, sleep still in his bones.
You scrambled, yanking the blanket up to cover your very exposed self, cheeks flaming.
He didn’t care. Not a blink of shame.
“Get the fuck out,” Sukuna grunted, dragging the comforter up higher over you—only you. His back muscles flexed like they were doing it on purpose. “You can scream later. She just got here. And I’m not done.”
Geto immediately spun on his heel. “Nope. Nope. I saw ass. I’m out.”
Gojo gagged dramatically, covering his eyes. “I think I just went blind. Why is your whole spine flexing like that?!?”
Toji just whistled low, grinning. “Damn. No wonder he’s been out of commission.”
Uraume didn’t even flinch, deadpan as always. “Do you want me to bring water or a priest?”
“DOOR.” Sukuna roared.
It slammed shut behind them.
You lay back down, breathless with laughter, still hidden under the blanket. Sukuna rolled over, eyes half-lidded, grin spreading across his stupidly handsome face.
ᴊᴊᴋ ʀᴏᴄᴋ ʙᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ - Notes, in loveee with softie ryo, ty anon.
★ Drummer!Sukuna calms down only for you.
It started with a snapped drumstick.
And not the usual “he went too hard in the bridge” kind of snap — no. This was deliberate. Sharp. Cracking wood and tension alike as Sukuna chucked the broken stick across the room with a guttural, “Fuck!”
Rehearsal came to a standstill.
Suguru paused mid-riff, blinking slowly as he adjusted a tuning peg. Toji leaned back on his bass stool, chewing gum like this was nothing new. Gojo muttered a breezy, “Here we fucking go again,” into the mic. And Choso… well, Choso just sighed and started organizing his synth cables, clearly preparing for another ten-minute tantrum.
Sukuna was pacing behind the drum kit now, shirt already off, tattoos on display, jaw clenched so tight it looked like his teeth might shatter. No one dared ask what exactly pissed him off this time — maybe the sound engineer fucked up the levels, maybe Gojo had made one too many jokes, or maybe Sukuna was just in one of those moods where his rage needed a place to land.
“Sukuna,” Suguru called, tone dry. “Just grab another stick, man.”
“Shut the fuck up, Geto.”
Choso glanced at you from across the room. You just raised your brows and kept sipping from your water bottle. You weren’t in the band, Sukuna had invited you over, yes... you're his girl.
Sukuna didn’t acknowledge your presence. Not yet.
He was ranting to no one now, pacing harder. “You think I’m gonna play when the fucking kick sounds like it's underwater? And Gojo’s off-key screeching over it? Don’t waste my fucking time.”
“Y’know I’m right here,” Gojo chirped.
Sukuna flipped him off without turning around.
“Sukuna,” Choso tried, gently. “Just—”
That was when it happened.
The smallest thing.
You stood up from your corner of the studio, walking slowly over to the drum kit. You didn’t say anything dramatic. No scolding. No begging him to chill. You just tilted your head slightly and said, voice low, even:
“Ryo.”
And like someone yanked the emergency brake on his whole body — Sukuna stopped.
Like muscle memory, his head whipped toward you. The look in his eyes changed instantly. From fire to smoke. From wreckage to warmth. His breath slowed. Jaw loosened. And for a solid three seconds, it was dead silent in the room, the tension flickering out like a blown fuse.
“...What?” he muttered, lower this time. The venom was gone.
You blinked innocently. “You done being dramatic?”
He didn’t answer. Just watched you.
Toji snorted behind you. “Holy shit.”
Gojo leaned into the mic, still holding his guitar. “That’s all it takes? One little ‘Ryo’ and suddenly he’s not breathing fire?”
“Shut up,” Sukuna grumbled, grabbing a fresh pair of sticks like nothing happened.
But he still glanced your way again. Like he needed to make sure you were still watching. Still there.
And you were. You always were.
The rest of the band took the cue. Suguru counted the beat. Toji gave a low hum of amusement. Gojo said something about getting a new nickname for himself (“What if I called you ‘Sato’? Will you behave then?”). Choso, bless him, just hit play on the metronome.
And Sukuna?
Sukuna played like nothing happened. But when he sat behind the kit again, he tapped the stick twice on the edge of the snare. A signal.
For you.
And then, to you—so quietly only you could hear, just before he sat back down and started warming up again—
It's so funny that Misa is famous. Imagine that you're a normal ass cop and you get put on a special task force to catch a mass murderer. And you meet with the expert detective in charge. And he tells you your top 2 suspects are a random teenager and like. Ariana grande
after a tearful hug from your maid of honor, she returns to her seat so bakugou can approach the mic set up next to you and izuku’s table for his own speech, his hands in his pockets.
he clears his throat, then surprises literally nobody by starting with, “m not real big on public speaking.”
a laugh ripples through the crowd of your family and friends.
“so i’m just gonna let deku do all the talkin.”
you turn to izuku with a curious look, half expecting him to stand up, but he only shrugs in response, a divot between his brows as he shakes his head a little. there’s some rustling as bakugou withdraws his cellphone and takes a moment to scroll through it, as if hundreds of people aren’t watching him with dubious expressions.
but then, izuku’s voice crackles through the speaker. “hey, kacchan! you’re probably still on patrol, but i just...”
izuku’s voice is muffled by traffic, the wind, and his own heavy breaths as he walks through it, but even as a few words get lost to the noise, it becomes unmistakably clear that he is describing your first date.
where you ate, how you wore your hair, the way you tilted your head to show you were still listening when he started to babble — and how that only made the babbling worse.
“and i know i’m doing it again now, so i’m gonna hang up, but i just wanted to tell someone — tell you, i mean — that i think... i might’ve found the one.” his laugh is somewhere between bewildered and embarrassed. “that sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”
you turn back to your husband with a slack jaw and stinging eyes. his face is vermillion, but his smile is unrestrained.
kento nanami would unconsciously close jars a little bit too tight due to his fear of spoiled food, causing you to need his help every time you wanted to access a jar he had used in the past. yet, he never realised how tight these jars were and the level of difficulty in opening it.
slowly, he started to realise a pattern. every single jar you'd ask for help to open, it would be a jar he had used recently. the jam he used to eat along with his bread daily, the jar of mayonnaise, every single other jar he had opened, you asked for assistance.
realising this pattern, he started loosening the jars by just a little bit every time he closes it. and you just stopped asking for help, that's when his suspicions were confirmed. you were struggling because of him...
a little voice in him tells him to tighten a jar once in while, to see you asking him for help as he desperately missed. but he just can't bring himself to consciously continue this behaviour, his love for you stepping over any personal need of his, knowing that in the end, a simple pleasure towards him could cause a debilitating stress towards you, he couldn't bear that thought.
SUMMARY : The losing streak that the boxing champion Nanami Kento began experiencing was shocking and infuriating not just to himself, but to a lot of people around him. With his exhaustion rising and the pressure from his sponsors and supporters to perform better becoming overwhelming, Nanami finally understands why his mind is not present in the game. Something is missing, a very important component to his motivation, the one that keeps him going in the face of defeat and countless obstacles.
His spouse, you.
WORD COUNT : 4.6k
AUTHOR'S NOTE : Suffering from a back pain that had me going to the ER to get checked only to wait over 10 hours to be seen gave me the inspiration to finally write this.
This longer continuation of my previous ficlet with Boxer!Nanami was inspired by the request of a lovely reader on AO3 <3
The cheer of the spectators was deafening as they chanted his name, clapping and yelling as he walked over to the ring basked in the eye-straining lights of the reflectors. He climbed the stairs and stepped through the ropes to take a seat at his corner stool, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd in search for familiar features. All the voices around him melted into a single continuous noise, a cacophony that was starting to cause the tension in his temple to pulse painfully. It took a tap on his shoulder for him to finally shift his attention from his fruitless search through various faces of strangers to the man standing in front of him. With a sigh, the voice of his cornerman finally filtered through.
“Yo, Earth to Nanami, do you copy?”
Nanami huffed, giving Gojo an unimpressed stare as he smiled at him, his eyes almost twinkling from beyond his black glasses. He helped Nanami get his mouth guard secure and tapped his shoulder again, his tone turning a bit more sympathetic.
“Hey, I know it's easier said than done, but try to focus on the match. You'll be home before you know it.”
With that, Gojo stepped out of the ring, taking his place at the ringside and allowing Nanami a view of his opponent, sitting across from him and staring daggers at him. The referee stepped in the ring and Nanami stood up, watching as his opponent tapped his boxing gloves together and jumped from one foot to the other, clearly pumping himself up for the fight. By the looks of how he carried himself, Nanami could guess that the guy was most likely a brawler, placing all bets on heavy punches and combinations—perhaps even the type to overlook effective aggression in favour of getting points from knockdowns.
With a strategy already formulated in his mind, Nanami rolled his shoulders and cracked the tension in his neck away, stepping towards the centre of the ring and raising his fists. After the referee went through the usual rules, the bell signalled the start of the fight and Nanami moved closer, watching out for the gestures of his opponent and trying to anticipate his actions. A few punches directed at his abdomen and Nanami was quick to parry, ducking once he realised that his head was left unprotected. He narrowly missed a left hook going for his jaw, landing a clean hit to the other fighter’s ribs and sending him stumbling a few steps back. He heard his fans cheer and the voice of the commentator excitedly yelling out about Nanami’s quick reflexes, but he drowned out the sound when his opponent advanced again, unleashing a flurry of punches and forcing Nanami to retreat closer to the ropes. From the corner of his eye, he could see Gojo yelling something out, lost in the amalgam of voices. Not that it mattered to him—he did not have the energy to listen to anyone that wasn't you.
The opponent raised his arm for a punch and Nanami shifted his stance to parry it, only to be surprised by a punch from the other side, landing perfectly against his jaw. He lost his footing from the force, his vision blurred as he connected with the canvas of the ring, cold under his hot, sweaty skin. Fuck, perhaps it was for the best you were not present to see him get caught cold in such an embarrassing way by a feint.
It took him a moment to come to, and once he opened his eyes and saw his opponent at one of the neutral corners, the referee slamming his hand against the canvas next to him, he finally realised he had been knocked out for a few seconds. He quickly pushed himself off the ground, standing up before the countdown was over. He could feel the swelling in his cheekbone, the pain and tingling heralding the onset of a nasty bruise. He was sure you would fuss over him once he got home, he could almost imagine the worry in your eyes so vividly, looking at him as you’d gently tend to his injuries.
Distracted yet again, the thought of your tender touches was brutally knocked out of him by yet another punch delivered to his jaw. This time, he was at least quick enough to adjust his step before falling, a pained grunt escaping his heaving chest. He heard Gojo yell out his name in frustration and he chanced a glance at the remaining match time. He grimaced once he read it: not nearly enough for him to take back the dominance of the ring. He knew he had already lost points from being momentarily knocked down, and whilst he was correct in his assumption that the other fighter was a brawler, his punches were far more calculated than Nanami had anticipated.
Despite not throwing in the towel, it wasn't long before the match ended with the scales tipped against Nanami, the side of the crowd that hosted his supporters echoing noises of disappointment and anger. Maintaining his sportsmanship, Nanami shook the hand of his opponent before he climbed off the ring, marching towards the lockers of the boxing club in time for the organisers to prepare for the next fight card.
As Nanami walked down the hallway, shuffling off his gloves and taking out his mouth guard, he heard Gojo run up to him, slowing down once he was in step with him.
“Hey, man, what the hell happened?”
“Don't talk to me now.”
“No, what the hell is going on with you?” Gojo pushed, following Nanami in the locker room. “You've been out of it for more than half the matches this season. The sponsors are not happy, not to mention your supporters.”
Nanami sighed, throwing his gloves on a chair and placing his mouth guard in a pocket of his gym bag, making a mental note to get it cleaned and disinfected once home. He grabbed a towel as he thought over what sort of excuse he could give Gojo to get him off his back, while also not relaying his real reasons.
“I'm tired,” he said simply, to which Gojo crossed his arms.
“You're distracted,” he countered, earning a half-hearted glare from Nanami.
Sighing, Gojo turned to his own bag to grab a bottle of water, walking over to Nanami and holding it up for him to take once he finished wiping his sweat off.
“Listen, I get it,” Gojo continued. “You need your lucky charm to be present or whatever, but you really gotta pull yourself together, loverboy. Your spouse has a job just like you. You can't keep losing focus like this.”
With a sharp stare, Nanami snatched the bottle from Gojo’s hands, taking a healthy swig to soothe his thirst. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew Gojo was right. His frustration at how rarely he was seeing you despite living in the same home due to your different work schedules was starting to get to him. Coupled with his previous lost matches, it only served to add to the cocktail of negative emotions swirling in his heart, effectively distracting him regardless of how much he wanted to focus on his fights.
He finished the bottle then wiped the corner of his mouth, tuning out the rest of the words that Gojo was ranting at him. He was tired and couldn't wait to finally get home to you and your comforting arms.
The drive home had never felt longer for Nanami, not to mention each step needed to reach the front door of your home. Every muscle and bone in his body ached as he searched for his keys through his pockets, opening the door and being met with complete darkness. His shoulders deflated even further when he realised your shift today was longer than usual. He kicked his shoes off with a sigh and shrugged his jacket off, placing it in its usual spot on the coat hanger before trugging to the living room and approaching the couch. He grunted as he began to sit down, a sharp pain shooting through the muscles in his back. He lied down, trying to find a comfortable position to wait until you got home from work.
His eyes closed just as he checked the clock again, his eyelids heavy enough that he didn't even realise he was falling asleep. A few minutes passed—or perhaps close to an hour, he wasn't sure—when he felt a gentle touch on his jaw and the familiar feeling of a pair of lips on his forehead. He cracked one eye open to see you smiling at him, gently urging him to wake up.
“Hey, handsome,” you said, your thumb caressing his hand. “Can you sit up so I can patch you up?”
Blinking a few times, he did as you instructed without further argument, noticing the bandages, gauze, dressings and painkillers you had prepared on the coffee table. He could tell you had been home for a while, taking the time to get everything ready for him before waking him up to allow him a few more minutes of rest.
As you began to clean the injury on his cheek, he looked into your eyes, noticing just how much your exhaustion mirrored his through the dark circles under your eyes. He took in your features, your mere presence calming him down while he quietly waited for you to carefully place the dressing over the bruise. His cutman usually dealt with his injuries quite efficiently, making sure that he was never at risk of infection or his injuries worsening, but even so you still made sure to tend to anything that the cutman deemed insignificant. Nanami had told you before that there was no need for you to fuss over him, but you always insisted, so he patiently let you tend to him until you were satisfied and reassured that he was okay. There was something so sweet and intimate about your gentleness in the face of his vulnerability, despite how much he didn't want to admit that he loved how you cared for him. After all, as your husband, he was supposed to care for you, too, but with his profession it seemed to him that the burden fell on your shoulders more often than not.
Nanami reached up, affectionately cradling your cheek with his hand. You turned your head to kiss his palm, smiling at him before you returned to focusing on bandaging him. Your fingers swiped against his bottom lip and he winced, suddenly aware of the cut he hadn't felt while high on adrenaline.
“Sorry, it might sting,” you said, disinfecting the cut carefully with a cotton ball, damp with rubbing alcohol.
He hissed, but otherwise kept still for you to finish. You placed a soft kiss on his lips once the dressing was secure, and he smiled for the first time that day, leaning back in to steal another kiss.
“I missed you,” he said, placing his forehead against yours.
“I missed you, too,” you responded, gently threading your fingers through his hair.
“I didn't cook dinner.”
You chuckled. “You didn't have to, silly. You're tired. We can get takeout if you're hungry.”
He hummed, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you to lie down next to him on the couch. He adjusted his position so he could cuddle close to you, burying his nose in your hair to inhale your comforting scent.
“How was work?”
“Hectic,” you sighed. “I'm sorry I arrived so late, but I had a lot of work to catch up on.”
“It's fine.”
You moved your head to look at his face, raising an eyebrow at his short tone.
“Did something happen?”
“Just tired.”
The usual excuse was already prepared on the tip of his tongue, allowing him to continue hiding just how frustrated he was at your absence during his matches, but as a fellow workaholic he knew he had no legs to stand on when it came to complaining about you working so hard each day for the both of you, lest his middle name is Hypocrite. To soothe your worries, he planted a kiss to your forehead, rubbing his palm across your back and smiling at you lovingly.
“Let's go to bed.”
Nanami was sure that if he heard the referee count whilst he was on the ground one more time, he'd lose it. Perhaps then he'd finally be able to concentrate.
A flash knockdown had never been this annoying and demotivating. It had gotten to the point that he was starting to doubt his own abilities and experience. Surely he hadn't always had a glass jaw. In the past, everyone was throwing praises left and right about how he had such a “good set of whiskers,” how his slips and punches always seemed to be so well calculated, and how he dominated the ring no matter his position. Nowadays, not only was he getting his ass handed to him by fringe contenders, but by upstarts and low calibre fighters. It was honestly shameful for someone of his rank, and despite occasionally winning a match here and there, it was not nearly enough to please his sponsors and supporters.
The sound of the bell rang with a shrill vibration through the arena, saving Nanami just seconds before he found himself on the receiving end of what he assumed was going to be a sucker punch, judging by the position the other fighter had assumed. He turned around and slumped on his corner stool, watching in a daze how his cutman Geto stepped up to the ring to tend to his injuries, with Ieiri coming up as well with a damp towel to help Nanami cool down. She took the mouth guard out and allowed him to drink some water from her bottle, moving to the side so he could spit out the rest. The last thing he needed was to get punched in the stomach full of water.
Gojo tapped the canvas to get his attention as Ieiri stepped down, clicking his tongue in disappointment. He placed his chin against his palm, leaning his elbow on the edge of the ring, his other hand lazily hanging against one of the ropes.
“You're distracted again,” Gojo said simply.
Nanami sighed in annoyance and looked away from Gojo, his eyes landing on Geto who was applying a cold compress against his cheek.
“Y’know, I hate to say it but Satoru's right,” he said. “The main event’s about to start and this is already the… what, fourth chance you get? It's also the last one if you want to get into the championship again.”
“You don't need to rub it in, Geto.”
“I'm not trying to, but you have to admit you’re getting special treatment at this point. You're too young to be shopworn.” Geto helped him get his mouth guard secure then gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “You've won before. You can do this.”
With that, Geto stepped out and Nanami took a deep breath, ignoring the snarky jabs at his performance from the commentator. He couldn't care less about their opinions when his mind was racing with negativity, shame, anger and disappointment at himself running wild within him. The adrenaline pumping through his veins was not enough to keep his mind on track anymore, and for a while he wondered if he truly had reached his limit and the only direction left for him to go after peaking was down.
He tried to shake off the thought as he approached the other fighter, taking the first punch, which landed clean against the abdomen of his opponent. He slipped away quickly when the fighter tried to retaliate, parrying the next punch with practised ease. Nanami threw one more punch, but this time it didn't connect right and it left him open for a second too long, the other fighter taking the opportunity to jump to an offensive position. Nanami raised his fists to stop the hits, the sound of his name being called from the ringside by his team making him snarl. Then suddenly, a sweeter sound filtered through, piercing his mind with crystal clarity.
“Kick his ass, Kento!”
Instinctively, Nanami looked towards the source of the sound, registering your face for a split second before he was hit by a heavy cross punch. He stepped back, narrowly dodging a rear uppercut, and stumbled against the ropes. He took one more stunned glance at the ringside to make sure he was not hallucinating, his heart swelling when he saw you were actually there, next to the rest of his team.
You actually came to support him.
A surge of energy shot through his body, his heart hammering with both adrenaline and something more, something akin to motivation, forcing his limbs into motion at last. He swivelled around and pushed himself off the ropes, prowling closer to his opponent, his eyes blazing with a dangerous fire that had almost been extinguished if not for your presence.
His opponent began throwing a few quick jabs and Nanami felt pain shoot through his forearms as he blocked them. One well-timed slip and he saw his opening, with the other fighter’s hand flying past his face, Nanami had a clear shot to his abdomen, landing a jab powerful enough to knock the wind out of him. The fighter quickly recovered, a sharp huppercut connecting to the side of Nanami's jaw and causing a dizziness to settle in his vision for a few moments. An advanced blow to be sure, but instead of letting himself overthink it, Nanami accepted that he had to switch his strategy to keep up.
The crowd cheered, the voices melding together in a way that made his ears ring. He focused his hearing until he could hear your voice again, shouting for him to keep going. He zeroed in on the sound, shaking off his dizziness and glaring at his opponent. The timer on the scoreboard was nearing the end, with just a few minutes left of the main event, and with how the balance was tipped in the favour of his opponent due to the clean punches and ring dominance, Nanami knew he had to make the last stretch count, for his sponsors and supporters, for his team, for himself, for you.
He took a deep breath, the air flowing through his lungs and allowing his muscles to destress for a second as he tuned out every other sound save for your voice. At last, he felt like his mind was finally aligned with his body, working as a whole instead of being pulled in several directions at once and splitting his focus, a single stream of concentration connecting his limbs to his will as he entered the zone. Time seemed to slow down as he shifted his position, pivoting his leg behind him as he wound up for a rear hit, and finally, after so long, he could clearly see his opening, his mind immediately dividing the width of his opponent's torso into ten parts to find the weak spot, situated right at the ratio point of seven to three.
He exhaled, swinging his fist to land a blow against the fighter’s rib, knocking him backwards a few steps. Taking advantage of his lost footing, Nanami delivered a few jabs that the fighter was too slow to counter, instead trying to land an overhand blow which Nanami dodged with ease, ducking under the hit and taking a step backwards to twist his body. His eyes shifted to his opponent’s head, eyes scanning him and effectively calculating his next move until…
There it was.
Nanami saw the weak spot, his focal point narrowing on the exact line of the seven to three ratio, and channelling all his force into his arm, he twisted his body swiftly, his fist cutting through the air like an arrow heading straight for its target. The haymaker landed perfectly against the jaw of the fighter, his head moving to the side as his body tipped over from the force, collapsing unceremoniously on the ground, a clean knockout even if from a wildcard punch.
Nanami took a few steps backwards to one of the neutral corners as the referee began counting down, his hand slamming against the canvas until he heard the final number without his opponent standing up. The cutman of the fighter helped him up as he began to regain consciousness, and Nanami sighed in relief once he heard them confirm he was alright.
He waited for the judges ruling with bated breath, the crowd clamouring as the commentators began singing praises over the clean hits that Nanami managed to land, saying something about his spark having been reawakened. Soon, the scores were out, and Nanami heard the crowd of his supporters erupt with screams of excitement before he even had a chance to register the ruling, the sound of the commentator calling out his name replaying in his mind until he shook off his initial reluctance and raised his hands up in a triumphant pose.
He saw movement near the ropes and his eyes shifted to the spot, noticing you excitedly jumping up and down as you clapped and screamed out how happy you were. Just as Nanami was about to receive his reward, he moved away from the corner, sliding through the ropes and jumping off the ring to wrap his arms around you and lift you off the ground. He spun you around with a smile as you laughed happily, clinging onto his sweaty and tense body. Nanami grabbed your thighs and wrapped them around his waist to hold you up against him, looking up at you with a lovestruck gaze as the crowd cheered.
You cradled his face in your hands with great care, leaning down to kiss him sweetly. He responded by deepening the kiss, pouring his love and adoration into it until the air from your lungs was depleted and you both had to pull away to breathe.
“I missed you,” he said, voice just loud enough for you to hear him over the clapping and cheering of the spectators.
“I missed you, too,” you responded, planting another kiss to his lips before you leaned your forehead against his.
With you secure in his arms, he certainly didn't need the judges to tell him he was the winner.
It was a slow morning for once, the sun shining through the curtains and bathing the living room in the warm glow of the afternoon. The TV was playing a random show, one you chose more to fill the silence as you both relaxed rather than to actually watch it. With his head in your lap and your hand soothingly running through his hair, Nanami felt like he was in his own corner of Heaven.
He stared up at you, watching as you mindlessly scrolled through your phone, occasionally laughing at a funny video and turning it for him to see it. You looked so gorgeous, still in your pyjamas as you lounged with him on the couch, your beautiful eyes sparkling in the light of the sun bouncing off the floor, your lips so kissable that he had to stop himself a few times from disturbing you by constantly distracting you with loving pecks.
He raised a hand to affectionately caress your jaw, catching your attention as you smiled down at him and leaned over to kiss him. He was quiet for a few moments until he finally decided to voice his curiosity.
“How come you came to the match a few days ago?” he asked, eyes watching yours as you looked back at him. “That was one of your usual work days.”
You smirked. “Gojo called me whining like a baby.”
Nanami groaned and looked away with a frustrated sigh as his hand dropped from your face. You laughed in amusement, grabbing his hand and bringing it to your lips to press a quick kiss to it.
“He explained everything to me. You should've told me you were struggling, Ken,” you said, your tone turning gentle. “I didn't know if I should feel flattered or guilty knowing what you had to deal with.”
“You had enough on your plate.”
“Kento,” you sighed, caressing his cheek and turning his head to look at your loving eyes. “I'm never too busy for you. You're my husband, we can find ways to compromise so things work well for both of us. I should've known the matches were so important to you and-”
“Don't,” he cut you off, sitting up and turning to close the distance between you again. “They're not your responsibility. You couldn't have known since I never told you directly.”
You smiled at him, shifting to wrap your arms around him and snuggle against him, pressing your face in the crook of his neck and inhaling him in. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, eyes closing to bask in the comfort of your warmth, the scent of you, his home.
“Let's promise to be direct with each other, then,” you concluded, and he smiled against the crown of your head.
“Okay, darling. Let's promise.”
“You should also probably thank Gojo. He helped me take a day off with his acting skills. My boss actually believed he was my brother who had been in an accident when he called crying.”
“Let's not push it that far.”
You chuckled, shifting again so that both of you could comfortably cuddle while browsing your phones. Nanami began scrolling through some random social media, until a message from Gojo popped on his notification bar. He opened the message and ignored the teasing messages of Gojo, the news article he sent catching Nanami’s eye instead. The thumbnail was very clearly a picture of you two kissing at the match, with him holding you in his arms and your palms placed on the sides of his head, angling him so you could share a romantic and passionate kiss. The headline read “The Power Of Love: Boxer’s losing streak curse lifted by True Love’s Kiss.”
Nanami would've rolled his eyes if he didn't somewhat agree with the headline. Your mere presence was powerful enough to sway him enough to get back on track, soothing and motivating him all at once in a way that nothing else could. He put his phone on do not disturb and looked down at you, peacefully scrolling your phone and leaning against him. He couldn't help but let out an amused huff as he watched you, his knight in shining armour, his hero saving him from his undoing with what he was convinced was true love’s kiss. You looked at him, your lips lifing up in a smile as you noticed his.
“What?” you asked with a slight laugh, and he just shook his head.
“Nothing. I just love you.”
You beamed at him, leaning in to kiss him sweetly. “I love you, too.”
You settled back in his arms, your body fitting against him like you were both carved for each other. The thoughts and worries of his matches seemed distant, forgotten for a while as he focused on the present. Nothing else mattered but the fact that regardless of the outcome of his matches or just how tired or roughed up he was, he always had a home on your arms full of love and comfort to come back to. He smiled, knowing that as long as you were together, he'd always be on the winning side.
theartofmadeline
yousharknotpass
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